Feels Like Home
by Dizzy-Dreamer
Summary: A collection of 100-word drabbles. MacStella. Rated T for one bad word in chapter 14.
1. i home

Just a collection of drabbles. I own precisely _none _of the characters mentioned within. The majority of these are completely unbeta'd. I've had some of them lying around since 2005 - read and laugh at the atrocity!

* * *

i. home

He steps off the plane carrying a duffel bag in each hand. His skin is vaguely tanned from months somewhere in the Mediterranean but the purple circles surrounding his eyes belie the wide smile. He's exhausted and just wants to go home and collapse into his own bed for thirty-six hours, but when he sees her - her green eyes, her infectious grin, her mane of curly, chestnut hair flying in every direction in the cold November wind - he knows he's home. She stands there smiling as he drops his bags in his haste to reach her.


	2. ii halo

Again, unbeta'd. I own precisely nothing and no one, much to my chagrin.

* * *

ii. halo

There's a bounce in her step as she makes her way across the room. She's wearing a dress; it's not something she does often but he tells her he wouldn't mind if it became a regular occurrence.

"You look like a princess," he whispers between kisses. "My princess."

"I don't have wings… or a halo," she protests, hoping to put an end to the argument so she can kiss him.

"_Fairies_ are the ones with wings, Stella. Angels have halos. Princesses are just beautiful."

"Should I be flattered by the compliment or disturbed that you know so much about fairies?"


	3. iii electricity

I still don't own anyone, this is still unbeta'd, and yes - I am still avoiding working on a huge physics assignment by reading fanfic. I'm going to get a big fat FAIL at the end of the year.

* * *

iii. electricity

There's no warning before the lights click off. Another clap of thunder resounds through the lab, sounding louder now everything's stopped buzzing and humming. She's sure the backup generator will start up, until someone comes in with flashlights and hands one to her. She discovers that someone is Mac and he tells her that lightning struck the power grid; the whole of Manhattan is out and – oh, yeah – the backup generator's screwed. She laughs, and presses her lips boldly against his, the dark silence of the building giving her courage.

"I've been wanting to do that for a long time."


	4. iv socks

Still unbeta'd. This one's OLD, y'all - really old. c.2005 or something. I aplogise if it's truly awful. I haven't changed a thing because I don't know what to change: can't see wood for trees and whatnot. I still don't own anyone, unfortunately. It's getting kind of depressing now.

* * *

iv. socks

She hasn't spoken to him all day and even at the end of an eighteen-hour shift he still isn't sure why. She's never been one to forgive and forget, but if truth be told even _she_ can't quite remember why she's angry in the first place. They ride the subway in tense silence, him looking like a lost schoolboy and her narrowing her eyes whenever she looks at him. She knows it's juvenile but she can't help herself.

"Are you gonna talk to me?" he asks as they get home.

"Only if you promise to pick up your own socks."


	5. v guitar

It's not even 10am yet and I've finished all the work on my to-do list today. What better way to celebrate than with some MacStella goodness? Again, unbeta'd; this, however, was written over a timespan of three years. Yes, three years. I had half of it from way back in '05, and only finished it a few weeks ago. Go figure!

* * *

v. guitar

She walks into his house to the sound of jazz music. The stereo in the living room is switched off, as is the television; she closes the door with a soft 'click'. She knows he has no television or radio in his bedroom, yet the sound appears to be coming from behind the partially open bedroom door. She pushes it further as she slips into the room largely unnoticed. He sits on the bed oblivious, strumming a peaceful melody. He doesn't look up as she enters, but smiles as she settles beside him. _This is joy_, he thinks to himself.

* * *

One more thing before I leave you in peace: I was browsing the fanfic awards and to my surprise, I was nominated! So, vote for me (please!)? You know you want to.


	6. vi thousand

Once again, unbeta'd. I own no recognised characters. This one, shockingly enough, is recent. Recent as opposed to being written in 2005, that is. (I wrote it in a physics class a week or two ago. When boredom hits...!) PS: word on the street says I got nominated for the fanfic awards. I don't know when voting closes but if it's still open, vote for me? You know you love me so!

* * *

vi. thousand

She smiles a secret smile at the calendar before switching on her computer monitor and beginning to type up a report. The lab is quiet, with the majority of her co-workers out investigating and the technicians working diligently on current cases.

He stands in the doorway and watches her, marvelling at how her untameable hair tumbles over her shoulders, almost glowing in the morning sunshine streaming in through the window.

"What are you smiling at?" he asks, after a moment.

"Today is the thousandth day since our first kiss," she answers simply. He smiles before moving to kiss her again.


	7. vii grave

Still unbeta'd, still belonging to Zuiker and co. I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who's reviewed so far, your kind words only serve to further inflate my already Texas-sized ego. From the botom of my feet, I thank you.

* * *

vii. grave

He doesn't attend the annual memorial service. He contemplates drinking himself unconscious – he even pulls out whiskey and a glass from a cupboard in the kitchen. At the last minute, just as he is about to pour, he stops. He returns the bottle and glass and finds himself on Stella's doorstep ten minutes later, stamping his feet against the early autumn chill.

"Come with me?" he asks in the voice of a lost child. She walks with him to the cemetery, bows her head before Claire's gravestone and grieves for her friend, holding his arm as he mourns his wife.


	8. viii coffee

Thank you so much for the positive response to the previous drabble; I was unsure about it even after hitting 'submit'. In other news, I'm on vacay! Yay. Again: I own no one and nothing.

* * *

viii. coffee

He's waiting for her on the roof. She shuffles over, clumsy in layer upon layer of clothing and a thick winter coat. She curses the December freeze as the wind builds up strength. She clasps a steaming paper cup between gloved hands and takes long sips, sighing contentedly as the liquid warms her insides.

His cup is cool, still full, and he's wearing one layer under a coat. He watches the clouds of his breath as he speaks and she wonders how he can stand the chill. It begins to snow, and he tips the cold coffee down a drainpipe.


	9. ix castle

Inspired both by the view of Edinburgh castle from the second-storey window of a Princes Street Starbucks. Totally unbeta'd and totally not under ownership of me. Well... words are, characters aren't. The usual deal, really.

* * *

ix. castle

From the top of the castle, the street and its people are no bigger than a fingernail. A cool August breeze in her hair, Stella holds the railing tight, leaning as far forward as she dares. Mac is behind her, as he always is, one hand on her back: a comforting presence. Her laughter brings a smile to his face, a jaw-aching grin she hasn't seen for quite some time.

A child's cries jolt her back to reality. She's been staring at the same photograph for a while, the detail is beginning to blur. Stella moves on with a sigh.


	10. x argue

I wrote this mostly in a car outside a pub restaurant in Edinburgh. It seems the break worked wonders for my muse; however, now I'm home, she seems to have returned to hibernation. Encouragement is always welcomed! Again, I own precisely nothing, though the words are my own.

* * *

x. argue

Sometimes, Stella can't help herself. Sometimes, she just wants to push and push until he snaps, until his green eyes blaze and his voice hardens with barely restrained fury. She knows he'll always do the honourable thing and she'll fight him all the way just to get a reaction.

She watched him stumble through the aftermath of his wife's death on autopilot; it barely seemed to register that her presence at his side had ceased. Sometimes, she makes him angry just so he'll remind her that he's not always the cold, unfeeling shell of the man she used to know.

* * *

I'd also like to take this moment, if I may, to shamelessly plug _Lullaby of Broadway_, by to-be-epic WIP featuring the whole gang and a crap-ton of OCs. Go read! It's good, I swear.


	11. xi fireworks

Unbeta'd, again. I still don't own these characters. I'm working on getting over that, but it's a slow process.

* * *

xi. fireworks

The city lights twinkled and Mac grumbled about it ruining the impact. Stella called him a grumpy old man before laughing freely; Mac's heart skipped a beat as the breeze whipped her hair about her face. She led him to the weather-worn garden furniture and pushed him into a chair, thrusting a thermos of steaming coffee into his hands.

Moments later, the sky erupted into brilliant colours: red, blue and white to celebrate their country. Stella sighed contentedly; awestruck, as usual, by the display. Mac, however, was content to watch his companion. As the last firework exploded, he kissed her.


	12. xii strength

Unbeta'd. Well, folks - we're on the home stretch. I have three more of these and then it's over... for now. Don't miss it too much, will ya? Thank you for sticking with me through this, for not laughing at my atrocious writing from three years ago, and for the constant ego boosts. I love you all.

* * *

xii. strength

The tail end of a double-shift was never Stella's favourite time of day. The sun was beginning to rise again, just as it had when she arrived at the lab yesterday, considerably brighter and much more awake. She dropped unceremoniously into the chair behind her desk and watched the day shift technicians walk past her open office door, ready for work.

Stella opened her eyes with a sigh. On her desk, atop a pile of unfinished paperwork, sat chocolate in an orange and brown wrapper. The attached note, in Mac's barely legible scrawl, read _"Keep up your strength."_

Stella smiled.


	13. xiii waltz

I feel guilty for neglecting this for an entire month, so I'm posting up another chapter. Feel privelidged, darlings.

* * *

xiii. waltz

They survey the scene; a woman lies dead in the middle of the wooden floor and music plays in triple time from the stereo in the corner, she comments on how cause of death is pretty obvious and he makes a remark about waltzing away from the scene of the crime to the tune of 'smooth criminal'. She smirks and takes his hand, leads him across the hall and pirouettes around him. He watches, slightly awestruck, with a half-smile tugging at his lips.

"Live a little," she dares him, grabbing at his arms and urging him to dance with her.


	14. xiv a long time ago

This originally began as part of a much-longer oneshot which sadly nosedived before takeoff. C'est la vie. Unbeta'd, and this is totally one of my favourite images of Mac and Stella.

* * *

xiv. a long time ago

_"I hate these fucking shoes," she complained, tugging them from her feet and sighing contentedly as soft sand caressed her toes. _

_"I think they're waiting for us," he answered. He knew better than to comment on her inappropriate footwear and instead indicated the party of people crowded around a barbecue a little further down the beach._

_"Why'd I wear these shoes?" she asked. He smirked._

Stella pulled a pair of impossibly-high heeled sandals from her closet and smiled, remembering the last time she'd worn them. "I hate these fucking shoes," she laughed to herself, tossing them on the 'keep' pile.


	15. xv sunrise

Well, friends, this is the end (for now, at least). I leave on a happy note, and another of my favourite images of Mac and Stella. Fear not: more _Lullaby of Broadway _is on its way shortly. Thank you so much for sticking with me through this, and for the lovely comments. You're all stars.

* * *

xv. sunrise

_July 5th, 1983 – _a day she'll never forget.It began, she supposed, the night before – fireworks on the beach at Coney Island, sitting on the rocks and talking all night. The sun rose over the ocean and for a few moments, the world was the most beautiful shade of rose Stella had ever seen.

He turned to her that morning, eyes bright, and said "it's almost as beautiful as you."

He kissed her then, and left for Beirut. It was then, as the sun banished mist from the Atlantic, she decided she was most definitely in love with Mac Taylor.


End file.
